


Cognitive Dissonance

by NekoAisu



Series: Inspired by Art [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Beaches, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, I think????, Inspired by Art, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Magic, Mistaken Burglary, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Octomer AU by Mintfoxmimi, Reader-Insert, Uncomfortably Hot People, Uncontrollable Yelling, strange and unexplained merperson anatomy, usage of (Y/N)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-04-22 04:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14300616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: If they had complained about exactly how difficult it was to open a door with both hands full of wet jacket and a bucket of specimens, (Y/N) was more than ready to declare it a walk in the park in comparison to their current state of affairs.Forget trying to figure out what a tiny and strangely humanoid octopus-merperson-whatever ate for dinner, or why it seemed intent on getting in the bath with them. Having to wrestle some huge version of the same thing off of them, their bed, and out of their house was truly the more strenuous task.It doesn't help that whatever it is just so happens to be uncomfortably handsome.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This lovely AU is by Mimi/Mint who you can find at:  
> http://mintfoxmimi.tumblr.com/
> 
> The specific post I'm referencing for this fic can be found here:  
> http://mintfoxmimi.tumblr.com/post/166927549540/picking-up-a-smol-octomer-by-the-seashore-is-bad
> 
> If you find any errors, please let me know, so that they may be rectified! Thank you <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 09/10/2018

With sand where sand should never be and sweat plastering their shirt to their back uncomfortably, (Y/N) deeply regrets ever thinking the beach would be a break for the toil of their everyday life. They’d expected early mornings and oceanside runs with everything drenched in gold, not the growing pain on their back from a nasty sunburn. 

 

_ It'll be fun, they said. You'll get to have a vacation, they said. Yeah,  _ (Y/N) grouched,  _ some vacation.  _

 

There was nothing that could scream rest and relaxation like baking to death under the sun. Sure, the location would be great, but only if the temperature wasn't coasting well above thirty degrees Celsius and still climbing higher  _ first thing in the morning.  _ It wasn’t even midday, yet! The beach was relatively clean and blessedly empty. It's not a personal goal of theirs to meet people while covered in sweat, salt, and sand. 

 

It's also not at all a personal goal to find a very small and arguably charming octopus in a tide pool, but good things come in small packages (except for sand) and they’re more than intrigued by the creature’s vibrant indigo coloration.

 

They learn approximately seven seconds later that staying to see what the little ocean-dweller would do was a mistake. Crouching had begun the process of cementing the backs of their thighs and calves together with half dried sweat and seasalt. The discomfort they feel is forgotten when its arms drift apart, unfurling like a rather flamboyant anemone. 

 

(Y/N)expects to just see something of a bell, or at least an eye peeking out, but they get a shock of blue-black algae instead. It floats more like hair than it does what tends to colonize live rock down by the pier. They debate possibly trying to see if the octopus would let them pick it up, but dismiss that notion quickly as it came. Touching wildlife they aren’t familiar with is a recipe for disaster. They decide to focus on the rest of the tidepool, instead. 

 

They carefully collect a few shells from the shallow water, bypassing a pair of testy crabs, and glance back at the little not-quite-purple blob. The octopus finishes its rendition of rolling out of bed and begins drifting about, but (Y/N) has already become absorbed in trying to think of names for a few rather unique snails they’ve added to their bucket. 

 

(They decide on Jupiter, Cloche, and Gulliver in short order, but the remaining four smails are still a bit of a mystery.)

 

When they glance back toward where the octopus had been, they’re surprised to see only an empty impression in the sand. They scan the pool for the critter only to come face to face with it and  _ gods  _ does it have a face. 

 

There’s a moment of unrestrained internal panic wherein which (Y/N) is pretty sure they’re going a little mad before they pinch themself. The face and adjoining humanoid torso + arms do not turn into a normal and scientifically catalogued inhabitant of the sea. 

 

It blinks at them, staring like (Y/N) is the wildest thing they’ve ever seen, before ducking back under the water and snatching at a silverside. It eyes the bucket (Y/N) had slowly but surely been filling over their course of their beach visit. There’s some sort of recognition there, but (Y/N) isn’t sure if it’s that of them somehow stealing food from the not-octopus, of if they may have something in common. 

 

The fish is tossed into their bucked without much notice. Then, another follows it. Then three more, another snail, a couple more shiny shells, and one more minnow. The last item is brandished in their direction before being tossed into the bucket.

 

(Y/N) blinks slowly, confused. “I have  _ no idea  _ what you are, or what you’re doing, but… thanks?” They make to pick up the bucket when the yellow plastic is suddenly assaulted by a writhing mass of deep blue. With a sigh, (Y/N) waits for the unknown denizen to make itself comfortable among the spires of too many  _ Turritella _ shells. They’d rather not end up injuring it, or tossing it out of the bucket on accident. 

 

Once both (Y/N) and their mysterious new companion are ready to go, they lift the bucket and make towards the waves. They glance down to make sure they aren’t rocking their charge more than it can handle, met my the sight of the… okay. This is getting ridiculous. 

 

“You  _ do  _ have a name, right,” they question, setting the bucket down on the wet sand - barely a foot from the rising tide and very much at risk of being knocked over by a particularly rambunctious wave - and sitting down shortly thereafter. 

 

They get something of a chirp and a slick pat- _ pop  _ to their knee, tiny suckers adhering readily to their sticky skin. 

 

They take deep breath. Whatever Guillermo del Toro was on about when it came to attractive fish-men was more than great, but having a possibly dangerous octopus-merperson frolicking on their bucket is not at all on their bucket list of things to (potentially) get involved with. They dig a hand into the hard packed sand with a sigh, focusing on the damp scrubbing sensation instead of their current state of affairs. 

 

It’s not like their new companion could magically shapeshift, or something (maybe?). Well, nevermind that sort of rhetoric. Just by virtue of  _ existing,  _ the merperson had tipped (Y/N)’s world on its head. They try to convince themself that, no matter what comes to pass, freaking out over it now won’t change the outcome.

 

(Yeah, sounds perfectly sane and romantic, having a huge octopus-person murder them in their sleep because they were dumb enough to give it a second glance.)

 

The octomer (a term (Y/N) had decided on purely to have something to call it by) was more than pleased to lay claim to the sunshine-colored bucket, hair drying into a rather ridiculous ‘do from its time peering out from above the water. It would antagonize the fish in passing, but it was clear that (Y/N) was its favorite thing to explore.

 

They sit on the sand for a while, (Y/N) enjoying the breeze while the octomer squirms and slithers its way across their feet. Apparently, toes are the wildest thing it’s ever seen - as evidenced by how it keeps glancing back at them after having climbed up to their knee to rest.

 

A rainstorm is not at all part of  _ either  _ of their plans, but it sweeps in with a vengeance despite (Y/N)’s hurried cussing. They scrambled for their things, tossing their towel over their head before beginning the search for their misplaced sneakers. They scoop up the bucket once the waves begin licking up the sides and nearly wash it away. The towel is pulled a little farther forward, shielding their eyes from the downpour same as the mer taking refuge in (Y/N)’s bucket.

 

The rain feels like it’s made of needles, stinging where it hits their skin and leaving bone-deep cold in its wake, and the towel is of nearly no help once soaked through. 

They can’t spot their shoes, but it’s hard to see  _ anything  _ through the dark grey of a severe storm. 

 

With a nervous laugh, they kick into gear and hurry toward the wooden walkway at the top of the beach. By the time they arrive, the ocean is throwing a fit, crashing and growling in misplaced fury. (Y/N) doesn’t spare it more than half a glance in their race to see how quickly they can get to shelter, twin points of eerie gold confused with that of street lamp light bulbs. 

 

The sprint to their house is messy. They glance down long enough to cause a near crash involving part of the beach’s perimeter fences and their body to check on it. The little thing was getting tossed around as they ran, water sloshing over the side with abandon and smacking shells against the sides as much as the bucket’s other occupants.

 

(Y/N) hisses an apology as they stumble up the steps to the front door and fumble with the keys, fingers shaking a bit from both adrenaline and the cold. With the rain coming down heavily enough to warrant even the most dedicated of beachgoers to head home, (Y/N) was soaked to the bone with little to show for it other than a bucket of disgruntled octomer and stunned fish. They let themselves into the house with a triumphant  _ “hell yeah”  _ and too much shivering to be healthy.

 

The door is yanked shut against the wind and bolted for good measure. Without their shoes to worry about, the towel goes first into a pile by the door. They fumble for the lights, hands smacking blindly along the wall until they manage to flip the switch, temporarily blinding them after the dark of the storm and interior of the house.

 

With a shiver, they decide against turning on the air conditioner. Hunting for the biggest, fluffiest towels they can find sounds  _ much  _ more appealing in comparison. 

 

The bucket is set down in the kitchen sink carefully. The octomer looks around quizzically before snatching at a fish and brandishing it at (Y/N) with a chirrup.

 

“You, uh, need something?” They dig through the cabinets, yanking a dish towel free from under a pile of pots with a loud  _ clang.  _ They towel down their arms before grimacing at the excess water dripping down their forearms from the soaked fabric of their shirt. They peel it off, shivering when the cool air against their skin proves to give them more of a chill than leaving the shirt on had. 

 

By the time they’ve finished toweling off their torso and hair, the mer has settled down, curled up in the center of its bucket. Its eyes are closed and they swear it’s snoring, even breathing a strange thing to hear from a creature that lives a rather aquatic life. 

 

There’s the familiar  _ bzz-crack  _ of lightning followed near immediately by the rumbling of thunder, lights flickering ever so slightly in the aftermath. (Y/N) turns on the bathroom light and snatches the softest towel from the rack, wrapping it around their shoulders with the knowledge that showering during a storm isn’t the safest. They could wait it out without freezing, though, and the pillowy weave of the towel is  _ heavenly  _ after the constant scratch of sand against their skin.

 

They trudge back toward the kitchen and open the fridge.  _ What do mer-people eat?  _ Subsisting off of leftovers and local takeout had been a great idea until mother nature had decided raising myriad levels of hell outside was in everyone’s best interest. With maybe a half a serving of rice and curry left from last night’s dinner the sole occupant of their fridge, (Y/N) figures they’re not doing  _ too  _ terribly (yet).

 

When they set down the container of food on the counter, the mer yawns and sits up. By the time they’ve finished dumping the contents of the styrofoam take out box into a bowl and popping it into the microwave.

 

The only issue with having that smidgen of luck with their food turns out to be the inevitable lack of anything good to follow it. The octomer decides it’s high time to explore outside its bucket two seconds before (Y/N)’s food finishes reheating, promptly knocking seawater and miscellaneous aquatic creatures onto the floor along with the tipped over bucket. Of course, it doesn’t learn a lesson in patience and soon enough they’re chasing the creature around the cabinets, trying to unwrap its arms from the wooden handles and keep it from climbing into all the Tupperware.

 

By the time they get it trapped in a jar, the kitchen looks like it’s been savaged. There are plastic containers littering the floor and countertop, a salt shaker and plastic utensils scattered in and around the sink, and one very grumpy mythological creature glaring holes through the glass by the time all is dealt with. (Y/N) mops up the water with their previously idyllic towel before tossing it on top of the washer. They sit down at the table with a bowl of lukewarm reheated curry, eyeing the jar and its inhabitant suspiciously. They can’t keep the frustration out of their voice when they growl, “Are you just about  _ done?” _

 

The critter blinks slowly before nodding. (Y/N) gives it a wary look before uncapping the jar. It climbs up the sides and back out, settling into their glass of water like it belongs there, waiting.

 

They shovel a bit of food into their mouth and chew, regretting now heating it up just a little longer. The curry is barely on the warmer side of tepid. The mer slides out of the cup and into an empty plastic bowl, glancing between (Y/N) and the glass impatiently. “You want to sit in my bowls, now, too? Geez, kid, pick one.”

 

They pour the water into the bowl and set the glass aside. The mer doesn’t seem satisfied, now staring at the small pile of dead fish in the sink. It waits for (Y/N) to get the message.

 

“You want these–“ (Y/N) scoops up the minnows and rises them off –“old things? Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” They set the fish down on a saucer and slide it to the bowl’s edge. (Y/N) goes back to their own food.

 

They switch on the television with a sigh, still half dressed in soaked pants and undergarments and beginning to freeze once again. They hope to whatever higher power that’s listening takes mercy on them and grants their wish to have enough time to take a well-earned bath. 

 

The news headline reads:  **Freak Storms Batter the Coast** (like they didn’t already know it). The radar displays an explosion of orange and yellow, no red or purple indicative of more than a waterfall’s worth of sustained rain, but that’s no comfort when having to sleep covered in saltwater and sand.

 

(Y/N) can already feel the resignation sinking into their bones by the time the rain slows. Their bowl has long since been emptied and set in the sink, the octomer slowly making its way through its own dinner. They pass the mer a few fish in a hurry, snorting a laugh when it shoves nearly half a juvenile silverside into its mouth without issue, and hurry off to the bathroom. 

 

Stripping down with the door still most of the way open doesn’t seem too terrible an idea. It allows them to keep an eye on the mischievous mer while defrosting in the warmth of the bath. The tub fills all too slowly and they decide to just get in early, washing up efficiently before luxuriating in the water. They turn towards the lip of the tub, hoping that the mer had stayed in the kitchen. 

 

It had not. 

 

(Y/N) shrieks, skittering backward and into the bathroom wall, hitting their head and splashing water onto the floor. The creature just tilts its head and heaves itself up onto the top of the porcelain, all too puzzled by exactly what a human is doing in a mini-tidepool of their own creation.

 

“I told you to stay over there! Why won’t you just  _ listen  _ to me?!” They pull the plug from the drain and wrap themselves in a towel, ignoring the scandalized look the creature sends them at the waste of water. “Oh, don’t give me that. You can wait until I’ve refilled it for you, so you don’t die because of conditioner poisoning- if that’s even a thing -and  _ no, you don’t-“  _ they snatch the octomer from atop the dials for hot water with a huff. “I’ll put you down in the tub when it’s full and not a moment sooner, whoever-you-are.”

 

It wiggles and frets and even tries biting at (Y/N)’s thumb, but nothing deters the human’s wrath. After around a minute of them fiercely glaring at each other, the two call a temporary truce in favor of allowing bathroom sanctuary to the displaced octomer.

 

(Y/N) places it in the water carefully, having run the tap so that it’s no warmer than the ocean had been that same day, worried that the lack of salinity would somehow prove to be the octomer’s undoing. They’re pleasantly surprised to see it dive down under the water almost immediately, arms a stunning array of blue where they flare out from its body. They hadn’t noticed how fluffy its hair had gotten when dry until it popped back up looking more like a silently pleased indigo mop instead of an ethereal being.

 

“Alright, then, squirt,” they say, yawning halfway through, “we’re either going to get along - with you waiting in the tub until the morning, or me seriously contemplating turning you into sashimi at three a.m. for being insufferable. So,  _ please _ , don’t wander around again.” They wait and the creature ducks back under the water.  _ “Okay. _ Time for bed.”

 

They fix their sheets, grabbing an extra comforter to ward off the chill brought on by the storm, and put on their most comfortable pajamas. None of their options are particularly warm due to the assumed heat of Lucian summertime, but it’s less of a worry once they’re tucked under the blankets with the lights off. They make sure that the bathroom door is left open, in case the octomer knocks something over, or manages to open the drain. 

 

It’s with another yawn and too much fatigue that they bid their strange guest goodnight. 

 

They wake up to inhumanly bright eyes staring down at them. 

 

_ Leviathan’s gullet, I am so screwed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at/with me on:  
> Tumblr: Kiriami-sama  
> Twitter: FlamingAceKiri
> 
> Or send me a message for my Discord ID!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good decisions sometimes seem terrible at the time, but bad decisions almost always seem amazing. 
> 
> (or, in other words, Noctis decides it's high time to put his nonexistent diplomacy skills to work.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Wow! How strange, to actually see an update on my fics;;
> 
> A couple of warnings for: inaccurate conclusions, cussing, minor threats of violence, and (possible) dialogue spam

Bludgeoning an unknown cryptid with a pillow is a terrible idea. 

There are no ifs, buts, or ands about it. It’s a great idea until your pillow actually _smacks_ whatever eldritch monstrosity there is in your vicinity; then, it’s the absolute worst thing you could have done. It’s also how (Y/N) finds themself immobilized with two annoyingly clammy hands holding their head barely an inch from the unknown creature’s face. 

_ Oh, god. Whoever. Doesn’t matter because I’m going to die. Fuck you, Ramuh, for trying to murder me with a storm. I’d rather be gutted by Bahamut then get my face eaten off by a vaguely glowing fish-man. _

There’s a slick sound as whatever’s behind the intruder roils about. (Y/N) snaps to attention with a shriek and flinches away from whatever had just touched their foot, breaking the hold on their head and smacking their forehead into what felt suspiciously like a human’s nose. “What the fuck. What the _fuck._ _What the-“_

“Can you just _calm down?”_

The fact that the creature is most definitely fully sentient and able to both understand and speak to them is lost in the flood of adrenaline that washes over them not unlike a tsunami. They break out into a cold sweat, hands trembling where they brace against the creature’s chest. It’s not like all those dollar-store romance novels where being pinned down by a shockingly humanoid cryptid is somehow exhilarating and (Y/N) extends a prayer that it’s all just a dream from taking a peek at the books left in the rental house’s bookshelf. 

“Oh yeah,” they snap, in response to whatever’s mocking them, “I’ll just take a deep breath and _not_ try to kill yo… u… oh my god you can talk.” They flush brightly, attempts to free themself abandoned in favor of having an internal screaming session that mostly consists of a myriad mess of _fuck, shit,_ and some things the Tidemother Leviathan herself would probably balk at. 

The creature huffs, unimpressed. “Yeah? Why would I not?” It uncoils from around them and (Y/N) turns the bedside lamp on fast enough it almost falls off the bedside table, rocking precariously close to the edge. 

“You’re an octomer, too. _Okay,”_ they whisper. It’s more an effort to rationalize the situation to themself than to really imitate a conversation, but they get one, anyway.

“What do you mean by ‘too?’”

They shuffle backward toward the headboard, angling themself toward the door in hopes it might give them a head start if things get dangerous (well, _more_ dangerous than being in the same room as a mythical creature who may or may not be prone to killing humans for no reason other than self-satisfaction). It’s with a gasp that they realize there’s only one reason this mer could have singled them out to intrude upon. “You’re here because of the baby I picked up from the beach.”

The creature stirs, sitting up and scrubbing a hand over its– his? –face. “I’m not a baby, damnit.”

(Y/N) sits quietly for what’s barely even a second before exploding with a shocked, “Ifrit’s _balls,_ man, that was _you?”_ They gesture wildly toward the still open bathroom door, practically shaking the bedframe with all their fuss. 

“Great to know that you humans are just as irreverent towards the Astrals as we are,” the octomer laughs, “and, yeah, that was me.” (Y/N) just stares at the like they’re not sure this isn’t just a terrible acid-trip before lightning flashes outside like a second sun and the mer flinches. 

“You don’t like storms, huh, man?”

“It’s Noctis and not ‘man,’ I’ll have you know-“

(Y/N) shrugs, halfway to delirium when pinching themself on the leg repeatedly doesn’t do anything to wake them from the mess unfolding in the middle of their borrowed bed. “Noct, then,” they compromise and the octomer glares like it’s the worst offense possible. 

“Only my _friends_ call me ‘Noct.’”

They flop backward, knocking their head on the wall with a soft exclamation of _ow-fuckin’ shit_ that made the mer laugh. “If you want me to call you Noctis and all that, at least grace me with your godsdamned pronouns because I’m sick and tired of worrying over being eaten by a _sea monster_ who doesn’t have even the most _basic decency_ to tell me their name.”

Noctis balks slightly even as his lips shift to a small smile. “Well, because you asked so _nicely,_ it’s Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, first and only child to Regis Lucis Caelum, and what the _fuck_ are pronouns?”

(Y/N) snorted, very nearly choking on a startled laugh while Noctis looks honestly confused. “I take it you don’t have pronouns in your native language, huh? They’re just basic terms that are used to refer to a pers-individal. Yeah.”

“Can’t you just pick some?”

“Yeah, but most people like to pick theirs,” they explain. Noctis doesn’t respond for a long moment before shrugging. (Y/N) is surprised by the gesture. For all their initial impressions, Noctis wasn’t exactly all that well versed in human social interactions to the point that the bits and pieces of things the creature _did_ know were almost jarring when tossed into conversation. 

“So, do I just pick a word, or are there rules? Iggy said something about humans having multiple languages instead of frequencies. Is it like that?” Noctis’s brows seemed to migrate higher and closer together in a slow slide that made wrinkles where they previously had been none. 

(Y/N) floundered and found themself searching for an answer they didn't quite have. "Yeah? Kind of, on all accounts. I use they, but most people use she, or he. You can pick whatever you want."

"What's the difference?"

"There's not really much of one," they reply. "You can do whatever you want, anyway, because you're not even _human."_

Noctis rolls about, half crushing (Y/N) in the process. "Well, she sounds almost hissy? It's not very nice, is it? He is like a wheeze? That thing you did earlier when I tried to get in the water with you, right? They sounds best, but I like he. Do I say I'm he?"

"No. If I refer to you, I'd use he," (Y/N) corrects, "like saying, 'Noctis is currently suffocating me with his huge-ass arms because he's completely unaware of hoe heavy he is out of the ocean.'"

"Oh. Okay," the octomer replies. He sits up less than a second after a clap of thunder sounds uncomfortably close like he'd been electrocuted. "I need to go."

(Y/N) blinked, nearly drowning is disbelief. "You have to go, now, and there's a storm outside nearly threatening to wipe me and everyone else off the coastline raging away. Sure, sounds _great."_

Noctis slides off the bed and over toward the counter, looking around like he's deep into some sort of search. He spots the door and nearly bolts for it, launching himself at the wood with a sickening creak- _slop_ when his legs? Arms? What are they even supposed to be _called,_ at this point? 

They're arms on an octopus, natural appendages that can do pretty much anything the creature needs, but on Noctis they're more like a mass of highly flexible, definitely muscled noodles. They'e not legs and they only _look_ like arms. Tentacles? 

_ No. Sounds like the setup for a raunchy romance novella. _

They settle on just ignoring exactly how inhuman Noctis is in favor of yelling internally at how he struggles with the lock. The door needs to be pulled inward before the lock would budge, the mechanism a little old and almost picky in how it was to be treated. He pulls at it, sure, but he crowds up against it all the same before just getting frustrated and yanking it out of the door like a crab from its burrow. 

"Noctis Lucis Caelum, you tell me _right now_ exactly what you're doing with the doorknob, or so help me I will sacrifice you to Ramuh right _fucking_ now," (Y/N) threatens. This isn't their house. It's someone else's and that someone else would charge them who knows how much for the damage. 

"Would you believe me if I said I was leaving to stop the storm?"

They raised a brow, arms crossed over their pajama shirt. "No."

Noctis nearly whines, eyes pleading like he wasn't more than strong enough to fight back against (Y/N) and win unscathed. "I _need_ to, (Y/N)! The storm is because of me-my father. Uh, dad."

"You ran away and he's pissed, so you put all of us in danger?"

"Kinda?"

(Y/N) stalks forward, fairly nonthreatening on their cactuar print sleep shorts and ridiculous moogle shirt, and Noctis shrinks back ever so slightly. He's big, however, and it ends up more ridiculous than anything else. He's flattened himself to the wall like a huge blue blob of fear. 

"You're telling me that it's your fault I got soaked, nearly had a heart attack because you decided to creep into my Astrals-forsaken _bed_ , and it's only _now_ you decide to fix the issue? Not even an apology, huh?"

They kick the door open, not caring about the gale force winds, or now water was already flooding into the entryway of the house. Noctis blinks, but it's with another set of eyelids, clear ones that don't so much move back as they do slide into place to shield his oculars. He slides off the wall and peers outside. 

It's late, far too late to be up, but the storm makes it impossibly darker. They're bathed in what almost looks like ink the moment they step out the door. Noctis inhales, seemingly rejuvenated by the rain soaking him from head to toe (read: not actually toe. just whatever those not-legs were). 

(Y/N) feels their teeth chattering before they even get ten feet from the house. The ground is flooded, water lapping at their ankles before they even get to the trail leading down to the beach. Noctis has no trouble inching closer to the shore, using his body to his advantage to both cut through the water as well as keep from being pulled away by it. 

The beach itself is a mess of waves and sand, seawater rushing up to meet Noctis like it was beholden to his gravity. (Y/N) struggled to keep from being knocked on their ass and drowned in some sea king's icy fury-storm. They glared at Noctis in envy and bitterness. 

"Go fix your stupid spat and tell him to call this off," they yell over the din. "I'll _literally die_ at this rate!"

"And if I go?"

"Then you fuckin' _go!_ Why are you even _here?"_

Noctis pauses, half consumed by the sea. "I wanted to meet someone new. I-when I met you I thought it was incredible," he calls. "I thought _you_ were incredible. I'm sorry."

(Y/N) growls. "It would be much easier to be mad at you if you weren't so sweet. Go. Fix what you need to. You met someone. You achieved your goal. Don't be such an idiot, next time."

"I'll come back," he promises.

"Okay," they reply. 

The storm does not stop as Noctis is swallowed by the ocean, nor does it when (Y/N) arrives back at their rented home. It doesn't stop for hours, still. 

Not until the sun is rising and the clouds all clear under its light. 

Noctis doesn't come back until one and a half weeks later. He's tired, visibly, and sinks into the sand once he lays down. (Y/N) doesn't ask, just sits with him in the shallows like they aren't an unlikely pair of ill-fated friends. 

They learn, three hours later, with Noctis hanging from the refrigerator door, that there will be no more freak storms. The news comes as a relief. The only problem is that Noctis had lied to his father blatantly, saying that he'd met another mer and not a human whose house he nearly wrecked. 

"So... uh... yeah. He wants to meet you?"

Spatula in hand, (Y/N) is ready to murder the crown prince with no regrets other than meeting him in the first place. "He _what_ now?"

"Wants to meet you?" Noctis repeats. 

"Un-fucking-believable."

And so, with exactly zero idea how they would pull this off, Noctis convinced (Y/N) to meet his dad, the King of Lucis and literal old man of the sea, Regis Lucis Caelum. 

_ It’ll be fun, they said. You won’t die an untimely death, they said. Yeah, well fuck you too, Noct. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I beg for kudos and comments! Please tell me what you liked/didn't like/want more of! I love to hear from readers!!
> 
> Find me on:  
> Tumblr @kiriami-sama  
> Twitter @FlamingAceKiri

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm weak to kudos and commentary, so I ask that you do me a favor and leave me a little love. Keysmashes! Critique! Whatever you want! (please, I beg of you)
> 
> If you'd like to see more of this type of content from me, or are interested in this becoming a series, please let me know!
> 
> Find me at:  
> https://kiriami-sama.tumblr.com/  
> https://twitter.com/FlamingAceKiri  
> (or in your local pond. If you aren't sure, feel free to check. The wind will show you the way)


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